Path to Ascendency
by fjun
Summary: Mages and Sorceresses now gather at Andoral's Reach, hunted all the way to their refuge by templars and seekers alike. Ancient threats and old legends arise, each in diametrical opposition. A convergence of power, and, with it, change, soon will overcome the continent of Thedas. But within change's shadow often lumbers great peril, hand in hand, like twin brother and sister.
1. Dark Wings, Dark Words

_Author's note:_

_Dragon Age, and all occuring characters belong to Bioware. Some titles and phrases I am using belong to Steven Erikson's marvellous work in A Tale of the Malazan Book of the Fallen. This work of fiction belongs to me, do not repost or copy without my permission._

_I wanted to get a Dragon Age fic out for a long time now, yet somehow I've never felt quite satisfied with how my stories where shaping up. First I wanted to write a fic following the storyline of Origins in an AU. But, there, I felt . . . confined. So many things where given, and when the whole plotline is there, infront of you, you've a hard time changing it. At least, that's how I feel. So I said 'sod it all' and started anew, once again and this time with my own story, this story._

_Be aware that this is set in an Alternative Universe, there will be major and minor changes to how the world of Thedas works, eminentily to how magic and things involved around the subject, in addition to some imaginations of my own._

_Please enjoy, and I'd be happily surprised if you'd take a few minutes to merge your opinions into a comment, long or short, that's up to you. Because those few minutes you'd invest there, they'd be my fuel for future hours. If you have an idea for a sidequest, please, do not shy away, send me a PM with details. I shall anwser._

_Some of you may notice that I borrowed my first chapter's title from A song of Ice and Fire. But I deemed it fitting, there are wings and many words, so __maybe you'll do too._

_Thank you very much, now onwards to my story._

_fjun_

* * *

******.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

**PATH TO ASCENDENCY****  
**

**Chapter One **

**Dark Wings, Dark Words**

******.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

* * *

Many, if not all, people of Ferelden, and in advance Thedas, sooner or later heard of Araris Cousland, Commander of the Grey, Hero and First Sword of Ferelden, and his mysterious disappearance in Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon. None, not even King Alistair Theirin, who was, at the time of the Fifth Blight, among the Hero's closest companions, had any notion as to why he had vanished. But, alas, as always, none of us heard the call coming from the elven Alienage that one of their own, a young child, had, too, vanished that same tragic night. Only years later, historians, noble born and people alike would have grasped that simple, yet meaningful truth.

- From _First Sword's Tales_, by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar.

* * *

**9:40 Dragon, Bloomingtide.  
Ferelden, Denerim**

Nearby flames danced, cackling away at firewood, bathing the entire room in blissful shades of orange. The monotone sound always helped him calm, clear his thoughts, especially in dire times. There he sat, King of Ferelden, now for the past nine years, yet efforts he had sown years ago, the lands terribly ravaged by the Blight and the following Thaw, still had to bear fruit to their full extent. He occupied one of two high leather armchairs, alone, inside his personal study.

_My refuge, more likely. _

His right hand currently enveloped an unadorned goblet, filled with watered-down wine, up from the north. From Highever. Not as renowned as Antivan or Orlesian wine, admittedly, not even nearly as much, yet, for him, it would do. He didn't know why exactly, but it had proven as an anchor, to past times, always reminding him. He wouldn't want to forget. Not everything, at least.

A hesitant knock at the study's door snapped him out of his thoughts, awareness returning to his surroundings.

'Enter.'

At the door's metal hinges mournful protests at his back, he slightly turned his head.

'Your Majesty, a messenger, from Orlais.'

Alistair frowned. 'Offer food and rest for the night, I shall speak to him on the morrow.'

'She, your Majesty, and she says it's very urgent,' the servant said, 'says it's about the Hero. About Lord Cousland.'

He felt his heart skip a beat.

'Bring her.'

'At once, your Majesty.' The door closed, leaving him again alone with his thoughts, dark clouds gathering, in promise of a raging, thunderous storm, his prior calm evaporating quickly.

_Araris, what of him? Has he been found, or has he returned of his own choosing? But why Orlais, surly that's what this messenger means to inform me of. Why not Ferelden, why not come here, to his birthplace? No, he would have come home, so not of his own free will. Then what else? Dead, maybe killed and now his corpse, displayed in the streets of Orlais as hero . . . or adversary to the empire. No, not Araris, the Maker himself would have to sunder the Veil, walk upon mortal soil, and drag that man from our realm to His side. Araris is too- _

The door opened a second time, just as he rose to begin pacing as his thoughts would have him. Admitting a woman clad in dyed leathers, a dark cloak covering her form, a hood shadowed her face, only strands of short, fiery hair looming out beneath. Two leather gloved hands reached up and threw back the hood.

Alistair halted in his tracks, both mentally and physically, staring. 'Leliana?'

She started towards him, embracing him in a fierce hug, then taking his face in her nimble hands, plucked a sweet kiss on his lips. Like every time, so long past, the heat rose, filling his cheeks.

He felt her breath as she spoke.

'You're looking good, if not a bit unrested. You should sleep more.'

'You do know I am married?' Alistair asked.

'Why yes, I'd heard.'

'And you do know I've children?'

'I shall, then, tell no one of it,' she replied cheekily, 'Will you, your Majesty, promise to do the same?'

He couldn't help but admit a smile.

She smiled back. 'Our secret, then.'

'It's good to see you, Leli. How are you?'

Her hands returning to her side, she stepped back a few paces.

'Marvellous, but, Alistair, this is not the time to speak about either you or me.'

His mood at seeing his old lover vanishing, a blank mask set in place over his even features.

'Alas, tell me then, what of Araris, is he . . . alive?'

Pulling off her dusty cloak, throwing it over a wooden stool, she settled down into the armchair Alistair had occupied but few moments ago. Not caring, he settled down opposite her, waiting for her to speak up.

Leliana stared into the flames, slowly but steadily eating away at the cackling firewood, leaving naught but ash, before she roused herself and looked at him with a heavy gaze. Washed-out iron, filled with thunder clouded her vision, an emotional storm raging and devouring all, probably mirrored in his own.

'Nothing as drastic as death,' she sighed, closing her eyes, 'yet . . .'

**.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

**9:40 Dragon, Cloudreach.  
Orlais, Val Foret**

Ever since, he had been fond of the Templar's outpost in Val Foret. He could, even now, remember the day when he had arrived, here, as new Knight-Lieutenant, taking over command. The long abandoned belfry, with its four adjacent, two-level wings, had intrigued him, and he had come to cherish it as his place of work. The old limestone walls, with thick vines twirling up, gave the building an aura of ancient mystery. Befitting of his order.

Since the first year he had served in Val Foret, the belfry's top, with its four-columned housing and its rusting, brass-coloured bell had come to be his spiritual sanctuary. Frequently he walked up the unilluminated staircase. Reaching up top to then clear his head or asking for the Maker's guidance in dire times. Though, mostly, he came up after dusk, when only the moon, high above, painted the earth in light and shadow. Then, he would think, of his believes, the Chantry's beliefs and all that has happened, because of them, because of him. He would look up to unreachable stars, and loose himself in the depths of his mind.

_Our past, long forgotten beneath. One look up, and you gaze upon a dark sea, filled with countless lights, yet even those lights remain a distant past, for they are too slow, in showing us their present. And ahead, ever the future._

But, with the sun still alive and bells away from dying out, staring out his office's opened counter-window had to suffice for him today. Northwest, he could barely make out the outskirts of the Nahashin Marshes, and the countless tiny rivers, spreading out from the river originating in The Waking Sea, passing through The Heartlands, and rushing steadily by at Val Foret's humble docks.

Taking seat again, Knight-Lieutenant Edmond resumed his shuffling through numerous reports decorating his desk. Since the mages had wilfully declared all of themselves apostates, and the subsequent nullifying of the Nevarran Accord by the Templar Order and Seekers of Truth, reports and messages and new orders arrived nearly every bell. At least, to him it seemed that way, if his office desk was any indication.

The door creaked open, admitting a tall, short haired woman, clad in Templar armour.

From his chair, he looked up at her. 'Knight-Corporal?'

'Ser, I think you should come see this, now.' She said, with vehemence, he scarcely heard from her.

Sighing, he stood, and after momentarily looking at the mess on his desk, started towards the door.

'After you, Jeannette,' he said, indicating with his hand, 'Tell me.'

'A, if you will, _cousier_ arrived.'

'Indeed?'

'One of our own, though not stationed in Val Foret. Nearly kissing the Maker's feet is he, as is his horse.'

Edmond stopped, perplexed. 'Kissing the . . . and his horse?'

Stopping half a pace later, Jeanette started, 'Yes, he's-'

Understanding dawned. 'Take me to him, at once.'

'What do you think,' she grumbled under her breath, 'I'm trying to do here.'

He indignantly stared at her, mouth opening, then snapping shut audibly. She nodded, and turned, walking away, with him following close by. He wasn't entirely sure, but he'd have sworn he heard her mutter something short beyond his hearing.

Hurrying down the staircase, turning twice left and once right, they arrived at a heavy oaken door. Stepping into Healer's Hall, even though there were no healers about, only alchemists, surgeons and templars, his gaze settled upon a grim scene. In the middle of the room, hastily assembled, were two wooden tables pulled together. Upon them lay a man; nearly everything else was covered in blood, slowly trickling onto the floor. Around the impromptu operating table were stools and caskets filled to brim with potions and bloodied cloths and herbs and surgeon's tools.

'Recruits, out!' He bellowed.

Quickly complying, everyone, bar him, Jeannette and the two surgeons hovering around, trying to save the templar's life, filed out of the room.

Stepping closer towards the wounded, Edmond got clear vision of the extension of the man's wounds. One look sufficed, and Edmond, clearly, saw that there was no way to save this templar's life. The man's entire left side had been pierced, the projectiles dissimilar and spanning from one to nearly three finger-widths in diameter. Crushing ribs and tearing organs apart beneath. The flesh around those entry wounds was black, deadened. Additionally his right arm, particularly the underarm, exhibited severed burns, as if he'd try to shield himself, unsuccessfully.

_Only one weapon I know leaves these kinds of wounds. Apostates. Ice and Fire._

'Dull his pain, he's beyond your capabilities,' Edmond said, looking towards the two men. They both stared at him disbelievingly, before nodding their pale faces.

Edmond stepped closer, grasped the man's left hand and leaned in, locking onto his hazy eyes.

'Tell me, ser, your name.'

'Ser Pierre, are you-' he drew a ragged breath.

'I am Knight-Lieutenant Edmond of Val Foret. Brother, tell me what happened.'

He weakly nodded. 'We're hunting a group of mages, nearly a dozen of them, I think, found 'em near the marshes, south.'

He coughed up blood and bile. Edmond pressed his hand. Slowly his terrible coughing ceased.

'Caught up with 'em, or so we thought. They waited, in the marshes. Ambushed us, killed all-'

The dying templar owlishly blinked, looking left and right, then his gaze became clouded again, and he continued.

'-all, but me,' Pierre breathed his last words.

Edmond took both hands and crossed them over the man's chest, then stepped back one pace and lowered his head, as did everyone else present.

'May you find peace at the Maker's side, Ser Pierre. Your death shan't be forgotten, and justice shall be served.'

He turned on his heels and walked over towards Jeannette, few paces away he halted and fixer her with narrowed eyes. Her eyes widened.

'Knight-Corporal, assemble everyone in the dining-hall within one bell's time.'

She nodded her assent, and then procured a white handkerchief out of one of her belt-pouches, holding it up. Edmond darkly furrowed his eyebrows in return, now, definitely, was not the time for her being a _facétieuse_.

She held up her second hand in mock defence. 'There's blood covering your face, Knight-Lieutenant. Quite ghastly.'

He sighed. Gratefully, he grabbed the piece of cloth and began cleaning himself.

* * *

With straight posture, Edmond marched into the great dining-hall. Immediately, every whisper ceased, leaving an oppressive silence looming in the air. Iron candleholders illuminated the hall, in flickering light and dancing shadows, up high from the room's ceiling. Armour clanking with every step he took, the only sound reverberating off the limestone walls. He halted in the room's middle, between the arrayed benches and tables. Between his silent templars.

'Brothers and sisters,' he greeted them.

Looking around, his gaze swept the entire room.

'Some of you may already have heard the whispered rumours, that one of our own came to us today, bearing a message, a warning. Even on the verge of death, Ser Pierre fulfilled his duty as a templar.'

Mutters and whispers and prayers emerged, dancing around, from one corner of the hall to the other, like shadow and light. Edmond waited until their dance ceased, then continued.

'He told to me his tale. They were hunting a group of mages, tracking them to the outskirts of the southern Nahashin Marshes, and were then ambushed, became the hunted, by these very apostates.'

Edmond began pacing through the hall, with every word he told, faces around him darkened.

'Everyone but he killed, and not a bell ago, Ser Pierre, too, joined the Maker's side.'

Ghastly and furrowed faces now surrounded him, darkened by anger and foreboding vengeance.

'Ser Gaspard.'

The old man rose. 'Yes, Knight-Lieutenant?'

'You shall stay here, with a small contingent, keeping everything as it is. Choose ten, and choose carefully.'

'Yes, ser.' He nodded, then took seat again.

'Everyone else, ready yourselves. By dawn, at first light, we shall hunt mages.' Edmond turned, striding towards the entrance.

The dining-hall erupted into a deafening roar. There was but one outcome for this, and everyone knew.

At the heavy, double wooden doors, he gestured for his waiting, and oddly enough, smirking, Knight-Corporal to follow. She nodded, and followed him out into the corridor, matching his strides.

'Tell Gaspard to send out a raven to The White Spire. He shall relay to them our situation, and that we are in pursuit of said apostates.'

Taking a breath, he continued. 'Open our storage and armoury chambers. See to it that everyone has, at least, two large lyrium potions available. One never knows how many engagements it's going to take, especially with mages. Even more so when their backs are against the wall.'

At the staircase he stopped, looking at her.

'And, please, bring up into my office, my sword.'

'I will.' She turned to go.

'Jeannette, wait.' She halted, curiously peering over her shoulder. 'Are we able to count ourselves lucky, or is my sword our only piece of weaponry invested with lyrium?'

'I fear, Edmond, luck is not with us, in this case,' she said, resuming her walk back, leaving him.

'Alas,' he sighed, then strode up the staircase.

* * *

Expectedly, after his speech in the dining-hall, he found himself atop the belfry. The sun was dying out, bleeding into the sky. With his left shoulder he leaned against one of the four belfry's pillars, facing northwest. His gaze set upon the distant marshes, the outskirts barely visible, where, currently, apostates and murderers alike remained hidden. Presumably, they journeyed north, to Andoral's Reach, which, nowadays, drew mages like moths to flame.

_Knight-Lieutenant of Val Foret. Who am I to judge these mages? But, the order dictates. Thus it has ever been._

His eyes wandered, down, to the adjacent wing on his left, the stables. Where, right now, horses were being prepared for their perilous voyage into the Nahashin Marshes. As Val Foret's templar outpost was a fairly small one, he might not have enough horses for every single man and woman under his command, but it'd have to suffice their needs.

_How comes, that I am in the position to decide their fates. I, who understand nothing of the world's grand mechanics, ebb and flood of time, back and forth, push and pull, good and evil. Darkness and Light and Shadow, ever warring._

Three wagons, carried by two horses each, filled with tents, food, drink and cooking gear, amongst other things, would follow his templar company, come the morrow. They'd be their mobile supply line. Hopefully it would help sustain them long enough to complete their mission. The remaining horses would be distributed among the scouts and trackers, and the company's squad officers, including him and Jeannette.

_Yet, do they not only strive for their freedom, their independency? Like every other living being would in their place? Wouldn't I?_

Vanished behind the horizon the sun's light gave place to dark. Uttering a silent prayer to the Maker, Edmond asked for His protection in the coming days and, especially, for the numerous young recruits among his company. Finished, he heaved open the heavy trapdoor, leading down into the circling stairwell. Closing the door behind him he walked down to his office.

_No, right here, today, in front of my eyes, there had been proof. Proof, that uncontrolled mages would use their power to rule over people, to strike them down forcefully, if their desires were to be unfulfilled or declined. _

Unsnapping the bolts of his chest plate, he shed himself out of his armour. Piece by piece, he scrupulously put them over their respective places upon his t-shaped stand, in one corner of his room. In nothing but his leather breeches and linen shirt, he noticed the plain scabbarded longsword, leaning against his filled work-desk. He picked it up, unsheathing it and studied his weapon in the flickering candlelight.

The hilt wrapped in black-dyed leather, a round, iron steel pommel peeking out underneath. Proving just as underwhelming as the hilt, was the sword's guard. Yet, the simple double-edged blade itself was an entirely different story. Veins of invested lyrium crawled up its length, hammered into the blade, casting the forged silverite steel into a slightly blue hue.

Anathema to magic, lyrium would set the balance into their favour.

_We must needs to protect the mages from themselves, and Thedas against them, too._

**.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

**9:40 Dragon, Cloudreach.  
Orlais, Urthemiel Plateau**

Nearly three days ago now, after nightfall, she had stood at her father's side, at the very edges of Urthemiel Plateau, gazing into the spreading Nahashin Marshes down below. Distant thunder lured them away from their small camp, its comfortable heat, and the two, skinned hares frizzling over the flames. Yet the thunder, as distant as it sounded, proved to be anything but. They stood witness to an unleashing of sorcery in the marshes. Enormous in its magnitude, for they saw it, leagues away from their vantage point, high atop a cliff. She was sure, that she even felt slight tremors, rocking the earth beneath her.

Her father stood as ever, indifferent of the events below, his face devoid of emotion. Then he turned and called out to her.

'Come, daughter, by now our evening meal should be ready.'

With that, Amethyne followed after him, away from the spectacle, and strode back into their camp. Settled down on a fallen tree's stump, she patiently waited until her father handed over her filled bowl. She ate her dinner in silent contemplation. As, too, did her father.

After cleaning the cooking pot and both bowls, she watched him built up their sleeping place.

First, with a quick jerk, he sprawled out the tent's hide in front of him, then laced two long pieces of rope through the tent's hide, each intercepting the other in the centre of the hide, at a ninety-degree angle. Next, he drove the four brazen tent pegs deep into the ground, at each of the hide's corners one. Dragging the hide to the side, he nonchalantly rammed a strong piece of wood, nearly three arm-lengths in height, into the earth, centrally positioned between the four pegs, it stood straight as a saluting guard. Flapping the tent over the wooden centrepiece, he knotted the ropes' ends to the pegs, stretching the tent above. Rolling out two furry pelts as mattresses beneath their makeshift roof, and finished was her father's deftly done work.

So many times, Amethyne had seen it. Yet, the effortlessness, with which he worked, had yet to cease to amaze her.

Returning to the hearth, he picked up his two-handed longsword, which rested against his backpack. Her father sat down, on a boulder, opposite her, flames devouring the air in between them. One hand settled on the black wooden scabbard, banded at the point and at the mouth silver, yet otherwise unadorned. His right hand gripping the round, in gut banded hilt, he unsheathed his sword.

The sword was extraordinarily thin, running into a long, tapered tip, edges on both sides, twin-fluted. Its surface was a strangely mottled oily blue, magenta and silver. Seeing it the first time, she had thought it would snap with the first block of a heavier weapon. But it hadn't. Never did.

With a small piece of cloth, dipped in oil, he caressed the blade, polishing it, as he did every night, yet, curiously enough, he never whetted it. Amethyne wouldn't know why but it always calmed her, watching him nourish his weapon, watching him work, concentrated, in silence. He did it with so much care, as if he'd succeed where hundreds of swords had failed.

After two dozen heartbeats her father peered up at her, and threw her a questioning glance. She was silent for a long time, yet his gaze didn't waver.

'Those were mages,' she then said, 'fighting templars, wasn't it?'

'Probably,' he rumbled. The sword flowed back into its scabbard.

'Are we going to help?'

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. 'I'd say they don't need our help.'

'But we're still going to search for them.'

'Yes.'

'And then, travel with them, to Andoral's Reach. Where the mages gather.'

'Yes.'

'Why, papa?'

He sighed, and began prodding the firewood with a stick, a frown on his face. After a long time he said, 'A promise of safety, lass.'

'I see,' she mumbled uncertainly.

Now, silence, between both of them, held reign for a long time. Only the cackling fire and a light breeze, vivifying the air, rustling grass and leaf around them, made any noise.

With a quick fling of his hand, he threw the stick into the fire, watching it burn, slowly turn to ash.

'Go to bed now, daughter. The moon's nearly reached its zenith.'

She stood and picked up her delicate, oaken staff, looking up at the bright, silver orb.

'It shines bright tonight. The moon, that is.'

Her elven hearing picked up the distant howls of a pack of wolves.

'Good night, father.'

* * *

The climb down the plateau proved to be less perilous than Amethyne had anticipated the night she had stood at the cliff's edge, watching. If one knew which paths to tread and which to avoid, that is. Just as her father innately seemed to know.

Before they reached the marshes, they'd skittered along The Western Approach's dry edges. After only wandering through the outskirts, Amethyne concluded that this particular cold desert was a stark and sad place. Filled with unstable purple sands, occasionally rocky pillars and ridges jutting out of them, strong howling winds the only sound carried by the air. At night it grew still and the sky was alight with beautifully shimmering auroras.

Rusted, old iron towers, built by the Orlesians, as her father had told her, at least a hundred feet high marked the path through these dangerous lands. A traveller who reaches one of them is able to see the next.

Arriving at the marshes' edges, they, more precisely her father, had picked up a set of tracks. Now they followed. Presumably, as her father said, it'd lead them to the place where the sorcerous unleashing had taken place, three nights ago. Nearly she didn't even register, in her occupied state of mind that he had stopped, and was now looking up.

'Something lies ahead.'

Clearing out of the brushes and the trees' thick undergrowth they reached a small, unnatural clearing, roughly thirty paces in diameter. Amethyne gasped in shock. All around them, cracked and broken and scorched trees without leafs. Branches, twigs and rolled-over boulders idly decorated the clearing's deadened earth. Fissures, no pattern discernible, cracked open the dry ground.

Battered and fused iron chest-plates, greaves, bracers and helmets rested side by side. Their previous owners' remains scattered throughout the clearing. Like a morbid painting, blood covered everything. Even the air carried a sour note.

A shudder travelled up her spine, raising her neck's hair, like hackles, at the eerie scene.

Next to her, she heard her father's clothes rustle. He stepped further into the clearing, approaching a pile of corpses to their right. Breathing in and out few times, gathering the wobbly remains of her courage, she followed. Few paces from his crouched form she halted her approach.

He prodded a corpse. 'Tell me what you see, Ethyn.'

'Corpses,' she whispered, 'Many of them.'

'Aye, and?' His attention still fixed on the dead before him.

She looked around, letting her gaze wander. Her head began to throb at the images, slowly burning into her mind, never to relinquish their hold over her. Amethyne searched for clues what her father, ostensibly, found peculiar. _What is it you want me to see father, within this morbid scene? I only see piles of metal and rotting meat, banished from this world by the very power I possess. Gift and curse, they say, two sides of the same coin. Here only the cursed side surfaces, unleashed to a dangerous extent and the cause for countless deaths, like a horse's hoofs, tearing and drumming at the Veil irreversibly, never to be rejuvenated. Just like the dead, covering everything. _So, her gaze returned to the mangled corpses in front of her, realizing.

'These are whole,' she then pointed at the pile, 'Their skin, it's unnaturally coloured, for dead people, that is.'

Nodding, her father looked up. 'Normally I'd guessed half a dozen, maybe ten, at most.'

Amethyne scowled at her father. 'What do you mean?'

'The mages.'

_Ah._

'Normally,' she concluded, 'but not this time.'

He smiled tightly at her. One of her father's scant smiles, when earned through her actions, like now, exaltation filled her heart.

'Look, again, at this pile of corpses, daughter. As you remarked, their skin's colour is unnatural.'

Unsheathing a curved dagger from his belt's back, he, once, stabbed into one of the corpses' chest, electing a harsh wince from Amethyne. Strongly watered-down blood leaked out of the post-mortem wound.

'Because their lungs were filled with water, indicating that three nights ago, here stood a sorcerer able to conjure one of the highest arts of magic.'

'An ambush for the hunters,' he indicated at the pile with his dagger, 'these were the first to die, among them a Knight-Corporal, probably the hunt's leader.'

'Such ferocity. They hadn't even had lyrium, otherwise . . .' He shrugged.

Deftly sheathing his dagger he stood, facing northwards, deep into the marshes, then walked to the clearing's opposed end. Amethyne watched. Arriving, he crouched down on his haunches, scanning the ground around him. After few heartbeats, he rose, walking along the battered trees, vanishing behind it now and then, only to reappear a few heartbeats later. When, nearly, he was at her side again she deemed the time right.

'I can find them, you know I can.'

His gaze snapped around to her, brows furrowed.

'I'll have a higher chance in finding them than you have, father. Now that we are nearer.'

For a very long time her father seemed to search something in her eyes, silently. Amethyne did not back down, holding his pertinacious gaze.

'A High Mage, Ethyn,' he said, his words ridden by demur.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she retorted, 'I've no intention of fighting them. Only interest in finding them.'

His bright eyes, uncharacteristically, settled on the ground, remaining there. Silently ten heartbeats passed, then twenty, fifty, a hundred.

'Very well, daughter,' he conceded, his head hanging, 'but be careful. And should they notice your presence, then-'

'I'll flee,' she reassured him. 'I'll be alright, father.'

Sighing, he nodded his defeat.

A spicy scent filled the air, a small, sudden breeze rustling the clearing's meagre grass and clanking iron against iron. Power flowed through her veins like a torrential river.

Then she was in the air. Wings spread wide, strong winds plucked at her dark feathers. Predatory eyes narrowed, she found a current, ascended, then surged forward, the marshes now quickly passing by underneath.

**.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

**9:40 Dragon, Cloudreach.  
Orlais, Nahashin Marshes.**

Eighty-seven brothers and sisters of the order marched over the turgid ground at his back. Divided into squads of eight templars each, marching in rows of two, four men deep. Three squads each, covered the front and back of the large hunting party, while, within the column's middle were three heavy supply wagons, flanked by the two residual squads. The remaining seven brothers and two sisters, among his company of templars, scouted out the marshes' lands ahead, in search of danger or tracks, neither of which had yet to be found.

The sky a distant sea of blue, disrupting waves of dull grey, yet the sun stared down relentlessly. Thus the bright sphere made their voyage, through the humid marshes, even more insufferable in its unrelenting presence, the oppressive heat burning down hot upon them. Uncharacteristic, when still, the year was this young.

Astride, in his brown gelding's saddle, he was among the first who spotted a group of outriders return. From trot to canter, he rode towards them, Jeannette in tow.

Slowing his horse, Edmond nodded at the three men. 'Report.'

After the three shortly looked at each other, it was, oddly enough, the youngest of them who spoke up, 'We've found the ambush-site. I'd guess, two leagues ahead, there,' he pointed ahead at a sparsely populated forest behind himself, 'we'd reach it in a quarter-bell, ser. If we ride fast, that is.'

Edmond nodded his head. 'Anything else?'

'It's grim, ser. And there's no evidence as to where exactly the group of apostates fled to, afterwards. We only found a single set of tracks, leading north, farther into the marshes.'

'Curious,' he muttered under his breath, 'Take me there.'

Turing, he faced his second. 'Jeannette. You take command, halt at the forest's edges. Set camp there for the night.'

The tall woman smiled at him, threw him a wink while doing so, then turning her horse she rode off, back towards the marching company.

Like promised, by outrider Lucien, as he had introduced himself, they arrived a quarter bells' time later. Reining in his skittish mount, Edmond reassuringly caressed the animal's neck, over and over again. Widened eyes affixed on the atrocious scene before him, his heart began to thunder, as if trying to hump out of his chest. A painting of pure hatred and destruction and death, presented through the macabre clearing.

The Knight-Lieutenant gulped. _Or is it I who needs the encouragement._

Dismounting, his armoured boots thudded onto the, by magic, riven and hardened earth. Gesturing, the three outriders followed his example. Handing his mount's reins over, two of the trackers left for the clearing's edges, tying them to trees, distant enough, to calm the horses' agitated demeanour. This left Edmond alone with Lucien, who was silently waiting, watching his commander.

'Do you know,' he whispered, 'how many?'

'Can't say for sure, ser. But if I, and my fellows, had to guess, which we had to - two to three dozen.'

'By the Maker.'

Treading farther into the clearing, carefully watching his every step between rotting corpses, deep fissures and devastated armaments, he suddenly halted, looking up. Edmond wrinkled his nose.

'Do you smell that?' He asked and turned to look upon Lucien, just a few paces behind.

The young man imitated his action, sniffing the air. Uncertainly looking at him, he tried, 'Muddy, ser?'

'No, it smells . . .,' Edmond probed again, 'somewhat spicy.'

Outrider Lucien frowned while wrinkling his nose, yet another time, which made for a comical image.

'I ain't smelling nothing spicy here, ser.'

'Nevermind. Did you find any lyrium-invested armaments?'

'None, ser. That's probably the cause for . . . all this.' The young templar spread his hands, engulfing the scenery. 'Them mages waited, presumably in the cover of dark, then attacked with everything they had. My guess, they weren't sure if they'd encounter lyrium investments, so they didn't take any chances and unleashed all they got before one of our own could even draw a blade. Quite unnecessary.'

Edmond arched a bushy eyebrow at him, unregistered, he continued without pause.

'And there,' Lucien pointed at a group of corpses, ten paces away, 'their lungs where filled with water, as far as I know, ser, that's pretty elaborate magic, but I'll leave the guessing up to you. But what I definitely know, someone was here, not long ago, inspecting everything, like we're doing. Even pried open one of them corpses. Here, look, that dried pool of bloodied water, came from this man's chest. I'd wager a day, at most two, ago.'

The Knight-Lieutenant made to speak, but was, unknowingly, interrupted, for his outride wasn't finished, yet.

'What's got my hairs tingling all over my body, and I tell you, ser, even though I'm young, there are many, are those fresh marks,' he indicated at, obviously, two sets of rather fresh footprints, 'Here and here. But then, one just . . . vanishes.'

Edmond face turned into a frown. 'How, by Andraste's Ashes, can footprints vanish like this, outrider?'

The man in question just shrugged apologetic.

'The other set?' Edmond asked.

'We can follow. At least for some time, ser.'

Nodding, the Knight-Commander turned away, before stopping.

'Where did you learn all that, Ser Lucien? I'm sure that no templar-outrider under my command is this sophisticatedly trained in following and comprehending tracks.'

'My father taught me. Began when I was four or five summers, didn't even understand all the words and phrases he used. Knew all about tracking and scouting unexplored lands, my old man did. He spent a long time serving in the imperial army as _pisteur_.'

'I should probably thank your father then, also, for your impressive skillset.'

'If you want, ser.'

'Good,' Edmond chuckled. Sobering, he then said solemnly, 'You're now in command of the outriders, Ser Lucien.'

The newly promoted templar nodded gravely, 'Shall we return, Knight-Lieutenant? Nothing more for us here, ser.'

'We should, indeed.'

While walking towards the two waiting scouts, he looking up and observed, through the trees, the low sun, slowly diminishing its unbearable heat.

Saddled in his horse again, he waited for his templars' full attention.

'There will be no talk about this,' Knight-Lieutenant Edmond commanded. 'We shall come back for them, later.'

Firmly searching each of the men's eyes, he waited for them to acknowledge his request.

'For now, we ride back towards camp. Rest, you've earned it, and wait for the remaining outriders to return. Then, follow this set of tracks, and find for us a path to circumvent this . . . place.'

They rode off, leaving him, shortly after, alone, in silence. Edmond took one last look, vowing to never forget, then followed.

_A painting, indeed, painted as only a masterful artist could. Who exactly are we hunting here?_

* * *

Edmond sat on one of two folding chairs inside his small tent, back at the templars' camp. A map sprawled out upon the exiguous desk, which, besides his cot in one corner and the petite, inconspicuous chest upon it, was his only other accommodation. Outside he heard, through his tent's hide, hushed voices and a hearth fire nearby, cackling delightfully not five paces from his spartan command tent's entry, vigilantly guarded by two armed templars.

Without premonition the tent's flaps were thrown aside. And in came the tall Knight-Corporal. Disregarding the orders strict hierarchical protocol, she only smirked at him in greeting and lazily collapsed into the second folding chair, across of him.

'By any means, Jeannette, please, sit.' He told her, his voice betraying his resign with her perpetual antics.

She didn't react at his words, as if she hadn't heard them at all. 'What are you hiding from?'

Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms, growling, 'Hiding?'

Jeannette rolled her eyes. 'Yes, hiding, inside your tiny tent.'

'What, in Andraste's name, are you talking about, Knight-Corporal.' Now, irritation laced his words.

She snorted. 'Oh, now don't you dare pulling rank on me. Tell me, Edmond, what did you find out there, at the ambush-site? Your new outrider-commander wouldn't tell me a word. "The Knight-Lieutenant's orders, ser." was all he told me, repeatedly. Even my smile couldn't persuade the lad. Something that usually works, and now, you are hiding, hoarding secrets.'

Shaking her head, expressing her own frustration with him, she calmed before speaking again, 'So, I ask again, what did you find?'

His fighting spirit leaving him, he pinched his nose, sighing heavily.

'I simply dread what lies ahead, Jeannette. Inevitably. I worry about my templars, as it is my, Maker-given, duty, as their commander.'

'Don't, then. Everyone, even the youngest among us, knows what lies, as you say inevitably, ahead. Many would hasten to see the moment arrive, the moment when justice shall be served, for our fallen. Every templar under your command knows, yet none hesitate to follow where you lead, Edmond.'

He stared, uncertain how to receive her seriously spoken words, so unlike of herself.

'Would you be so kind, and bring over yonder chest from my bed.'

Rising from her seat, she smirked at him. 'You and your words, old man.'

'I'm far from old, at least as long as I'm able to beat you, dear lass.'

'Of course,' Jeannette playfully retorted, 'Tell yourself whatever you like.'

Placing the small chest, before him atop the sprawled out map, she took seat again. In silence, he pensively caressed the box, retracing the flaming sword, carved into the chest's top.

'The scouts found bodies, their lungs filled with water,' he admitted to his Knight-Corporal.

She blinked. 'A High Mage,' she hissed in surprise, her voice hushed, 'Are you sure?'

'The scouts are. And I incline to agree.'

She arched a delicate eyebrow, her jaw set resolutely. 'In any case, it matters not. Even the Grand Enchantress herself couldn't set a twig on fire if you were to draw your blade near her.'

Edmond shook his head, chiding her. 'Lest you forgot, Jeannette, not only are we talking about a mage able to conjure a spell of the highest arts, maybe even simultaneously on several seasoned templars, but also are we talking about a mage able to feign being the hunted, when, in truth, he or she outsmarted two to three dozen alert templars, leading them into an ambush where our forces were completely annihilated. And, as much as it pains me to admit it out loud, it couldn't have taken those apostates very long. They unleashed a dangerous amount, Jeannette, they held nothing back, even I could practically hear the Fade's inhabitants' taunting whispers, so extensively have they wounded the Veil.'

She pinched her delicate nose, yet Edmond could see the smirk, the flashing of white teeth, hidden behind her hand, slowly lighting up her features. When her arm fell back to its former resting place upon the armchair, a full-fledged, feral grin greeted him.

'We'll just have to be smarter, then, yes.'

It was addictive; a smirk slowly crept over his face. 'We have to, indeed.'

Their conversation moved to the tent's exit, where they now stood, side by side.

'I'll better see to it that our recruits remain vigilant of dangers, then, lest they'd like to be disciplined.' Jeannette mischievously laughed out loud, once, and then strolled off with a wave of her right hand.

Edmond smiled a weary smile, so often occurring at the end of conversations with this particular woman. Watching her vanish within the bustling camp, he looked up at the sky. Narrowing his eyes to slits, he spotted a dark speck, a large bird.

_Is that . . . an eagle? In the marshes? There are no eagles here, none that I know of, at least. What then, has driven the beast to this place?_

The diurnal aerial-raptor descended swiftly, vanishing behind the treeline.

He shrugged. Returning inside his tent, he opened the small wooden box, taking out a tiny vial, filled with a self-dependently whirling, blue hued liquid. Uncorking it, he set about to begin his daily ritual.

_Till the Maker withdraws from our shoulders our duty, so that we may rest at His side._

**.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

**9:40 Dragon, Cloudreach.**  
**Orlais, Nahashin Marshes.**

Briefly afore the sun had kissed the horizon, now warming colours slowly left the evening sky. It had taken them two days of continuous marching, crossing through the marshes to catch up with the group of apostate mages.

The night before Amethyne had listened meticulously, her elven hearing riding with air-currents, carrying the sounds of horses afar. The templar outriders were near, following their tracks, a mistake her father tried to correct by covering his tracks after she told him of the approaching templar company. Not well enough it seemed.

Aggravated by his gratuitous lapse his mood turned sour. Even more than usual.

Roughly two hundred paces afar, flickering light reached them through the densely arrayed trees and undergrowth. Amethyne heard a small stream whispering unceasingly nearby. _A fire, poorly concealed, if it reaches thus far into the woods._

Shrouded in shadows, her father crouched down, his face turning to gaze at her. He nodded. Amethyne understood. Low, her father steadily edged forward, his movement nigh as fluid as that of a Dalish hunter. He treaded over muddy ground, rustling grass, branches and twigs, thick and thin, through thorny brush, yet he managed to do so in absolute silence. _As he does most things, nowadays. _

Amethyne circled away from him, creeping to the flame's right, her father soon vanishing where even her elven sight couldn't track him. The stream's whispers increased to a mumble. Tensely, she waited, hidden in the shades.

Magic blossomed to life ahead, awakened out of its deep slumber, sending a prickle through her body.

'Who comes?' A male voice, unwavering, with only the barest hint of trepidation, reached her.

'Friends, good mage. Seeking shelter.' Her father answered.

The sorcerous aura pulsed stronger now. Amethyne readied herself. Warily, she opened up to the Fade's currents of power, drawing forth insufficiently enough to get noticed, yet ready to draw more at a moment's notice.

'Friends, you say, why then the need to sulk in the shadows?'

She spotted movement to her left. Her father rose, hands at his side, as much pacification as illusion Amethyne knew, he strode into the hearth's light, halting five steps in front of the mage.

'Precaution,' he retorted.

The sorcerer relaxed a bit, yet didn't lower his staff, nor did the sorcerous aura fade. 'You are no templar.'

Amethyne snuck forward, getting a better view of the scene.

Her father stood, unmoved. 'Nay, otherwise your wards would've killed me.'

'How do you know of my wards?'

'I did not, only now.'

'Ha,' the mage grunted. 'Indulge me if you will stranger, for I am curious, you are neither templar nor mage, so why follow us and seek shelter with us, we are apostates, the most dangerous criminals in the eyes of the Maker.'

'Are you?'

The slender man, clad in torn rags, once resembling circle-robes, proud colours now faded and stained with dirt and grim, grimaced at her father, then shook his head. 'A straight answer, if you please.'

Her father regarded the mage coldly, yet the man didn't as much as waver beneath his gaze.

He let out an audible breath. 'For my daughter,' her father indicated with his hand, in her general direction. 'Ethyn, come.'

She cautiously moved to her father's right side, a pace away she stopped. Her staff clearly held out. Amethyne called upon more power from the Fade. _No need to hide anymore, I guess._

The mages eyes widened at seeing her, his mouth slightly agape. 'How?'

Amethyne just shrugged, feeling no need to explain herself. _Not to him, anyway._

'Your answer, mage,' her father pressed, his patience growing weary.

'Of course, unending curiosity, you see, one of my many errors,' the mage spoke, all the while peering at Amethyne and then lowered his head in greeting, with a slight, elegant bow. 'I am High Mage Bellduran, formerly of the Circle of Magi of Ferelden.'

Her father inquisitively arched a brow.

'Come, sit by our fire, defeat your hunger, we have some cooked meat, not much I fear, yet enough to share.'

Her father nodded gratefully.

Inwardly she sighed at the High Mage's unending downpour of words. _One of many, indeed. _

For the first time since the stand-off between her father and the High Mage Amethyne looked beyond, studying the man's camp. _No, wrong, their camp._

A small stream, maybe three arm-lengths in width, approximately knee-deep in height, separated Amethyne and her father from the apostates' camp. Trees bended and arched, their crown's touching overhead, they reached towards the source of murky water, a light downslope leading to the steadily purling stream.

On the other side, two tents, one larger, one smaller, and a hearth waited. Collected stones formed a circle, doing a poor job in hiding the much too tall flame. They'd used wood; Amethyne knew instantly, not dung as her father always taught her to feed the flames. Behind the creaking fire, a middle-aged woman set, mid-motion in storing cleaned bowls and cooking equipment into a traveling bag. Over the hearth a worn iron pot hung affixed, the smell of stew reaching her delicate nose.

Her gaze wandering on, beyond the frozen woman, she spotted that the larger tent's flaps were opened. Admitting three frightened, youthful faces who cautiously peered out between them, eyes wide. None of them had seen more summers than Amethyne. They were only children.

Her father's voice returned her attention to the two men. 'A word, High Mage.'

High Mage Bellduran nodded. 'As you like, traveller.'

His gaunt eyes flitted towards her before he turned. Together they stalked off beyond the light's reach, leaving Amethyne alone with the middle-aged woman at the hearth.

She waved. 'Sit, child, we've already had our share, eat.'

'Thank you.' Amethyne tried an appreciative smile.

The woman smiled back at her. 'No need for that.'

Reaching into her travelling pack, the sorceress nimbly plucked out an already cleaned bowl, filled it with steaming stew, and then dunked a wooden spoon into it before handing the bowl over to Amethyne. The elven girl nodded in response, and began eating.

'Your name is Ethyn, I did hear that right?'

Pausing in her humble feast, she put the spoon down. 'Amethyne.'

'Ah, of course,' the sorceress nodded, finished stuffing the residual cooking gear into her woollen bag, closing it. 'Mine is Lara, pleased to meet you Amethyne. Would you tell me, are you from among the Dalish folk. I've heard about their facial markings. Yours seem very . . . intricate.'

With her left index finger, she unconsciously traversed along her _Vallaslin_. 'They're called Blood Writing.'

The woman perked up. 'Oh, I didn't know that. So are you?'

'What?'

'Of the Dalish.'

Returning to her meal, Amethyne, in hope of averting the following topic, simply said, 'We've lived with them for quite some time.'

Uncertain the sorceress shifted, yet her eyes intensely stayed on Amethyne, she could feel them, as if they burned her skin where they gazed. 'And your . . . father? He's no-'

'What about him?' Amethyne growled, speaking more harshly than she intended.

'Alright, young one, settle down. I didn't intend to stir the wolf's den.'

All thoughts of hunger now evaporated from her mind, she set the half-filled bowl down beside her. _Time to point the spear in another direction._

'Who are they, sorceress?' Amethyne jerked her head towards the sorceress's accommodations.

'Who?' Perplexed, Lara looked at her, a frown blemishing her elderly features.

'The children among you.'

She shrugged. 'Unharrowed mages, apprentices, most of them are entirely too young to be put through the ritual, yet the templars wouldn't see it that way. Not any more, at least.'

'I see.' _Unharrowed mages, by the Creators, they sure like their titles. Whatever that is._

Then the sorceress tried to take advantage of her lasting silence, sheepishly asking her, 'Do you know what they're talking about, over there in the dark, whispering?'

'I've a notion.' Then the young elf whispered, beyond anyone's hearing, 'Regrettably.'

Interrupting them, her father and the High Mage returned. The robed mage look angry, yet also fearful, if Amethyne interpreted the humans pale face rightly so.

Surprisingly his voice proved unwavering, laced with cold iron. 'Lara, we have to pack our belongings and move, there is a whole company of templars nearby. They came to hunt us down, in light of recent event's I take it.'

A fearful gasp escaped the woman's lips; unbelievingly she stared at the High Mage. The children shrank back into the tent, as if hiding inside would protect them against templar steel. Amethyne frowned at them.

'But, you . . . you've said-'

'Swiftly now, we have to get to safety, we have to flee. Now!'

'A company?' Lara stuttered, aghast, the blood quickly leaving her face. 'We can't outrun them, not thus many. Impossible, we're going to die.'

'Be silent, woman, and gather the derisory remnants of what you call your courage. We shall escape them, trust me. They'll be diverted.' A queasy sensation shot through Amethyne at the High Mage's words, and at the way he said them. Entirely sure of himself.

Gulping, the sorceress nodded uncertainly.

Then her father stood before her, his frame swallowing the hearth's light, casting him in a fiery halo. He kneeled down in front of her, now on eye level.

'Ethyn, you must go with them,' he stated carefully.

Eyes widening, Amethyne resolutely shook her head. 'Father, no, please, I won't let-'

'No, daughter, you can't help me. Not this time,' he said flatly, coldly.

Irritation bubbling up, she opened her mouth to retort angrily, but then shut it, understanding what he meant. She would be useless to him, only a hindrance. _A sheep among wolves._

He reached out, gently stroking her cheek with his calloused thumb. Her eyes gazing downward, she lowered her head, and felt him place a tender kiss on her forehead.

Distantly a horse nickered.

'Quick now!' With that, the moment shattered, leaving only her tingling forehead as quickly fading memory. Her father pushed her away, towards the group of running apostates, into the forest's gloom.

Amethyne ran.

**.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

**9:40 Dragon, Cloudreach.  
Orlais, Nahashin Marshes.**

'Knight-Lieutenant, we've found their camp, build their fire large, stupid when being hunted, otherwise we wouldn't have spotted them,' Lucien spoke.

'Where?'

Without hesitation his young outrider-commander answered.

'Not far. If we march now and do so quickly, unhindered, leaving the wagons and unneeded equipment behind, we should reach them in under a quarter-bell on foot, I'd wager, ser.'

Jumping out of his horse's saddle, he addressed the woman next to him.

'Knight-Corporal, we halt here, I want two squads to guard the carriages. The rest will hasten towards the apostates.'

'I'll tell them.' She saluted, striding away.

The silver moon overhead their only companion witnessing their silent passage through the marshes they marched unrelentingly. Now, finally, justice drew near, at arm's reach, and everybody knew. Edmond spotted a small light ahead, steadily it drew near.

He heard hushed voices, then hasty footfalls. Edmond entered the clearing, enchanted weapon drawn, ready to give the order to pursue. Yet the words never passed his lips, they died in his throat.

A man, dusky skinned, standing at average height, approached out of the forest's gloom, halting a few paces away, on the other side of a small stream. There was something unordinary about him, Edmond discerned, like an aura, invisible, yet it seemed to make the stranger taller. Something about the man's posture as he stood there, alone, yet unperturbed, facing nearly a whole company of armed templars engulfing him in a rough half-circle, his soldier's swords and crossbows aimed at him.

'Who are you, stranger?' Edmond asked, surprised at the emotion his voice was laced with.

'I am Traveller.'

With that as answer the man's two-handed sword flowed imperturbably out of its dark leathern scabbard, the motion sounding like rippling water.

_Like a promise of tide, washing us all away._

Edmond felt a tickle, crawling up his spine's length. It took for him a moment to realize what it represented.

_Fear._


	2. Calm Fury

**.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

**PATH TO ASCENDENCY**

**Chapter Two**

**Calm Fury**

**.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

* * *

The draught was like a bitter fire, but I survived. Weep for me, for I have survived. Would that they had made a clean end for me. I should have died a lady, the greatest of the Drydens, not lived to become this nothing - this monstrous nothing.

- From Sophia Dryden's Journal, by Sophia Dryden, deceased Commander of the Grey of Ferelden.

* * *

Without premonition, and entirely without so much as a rustling whisper of grass or dirt, the stranger called Traveller darted forward, fast as a preying snake. In under a heartbeat, the man crossed the distance between him and the surprised templar farthest to Edmond's left.

Like leaves' sailing a devouring wind, Traveller's sword flashed. _Silent, graceful, and, in this case, deadly._ Only able to discern a brief reflection of flickering light on the oily blade, Edmond barely registered the weapon's path. Ostensibly, the poor templar comrade probably didn't accomplish anything but. A gushing spurt of arterial blood followed in the thin blade's wake. Gasping desperately for air never to arriving anymore, throat opened, the young man fell to his knees. Death through haemorrhage would come swiftly to him.

Edmond quickly barked for order, commanding his troops. Though, even a heartbeat later he had forgotten what. Behind him, and to his sides, crossbows thwacked, quarrels' zipping through the air around him. If one of them managed to hit their assailant, Edmond could not say. Traveller had vanished into the impenetrable gloom. Expertly the remaining templars rallied into smaller squads and fanned out, searching, hunting a lone prey.

To his right, the knight-lieutenant caught sight of a pale Lucien, his current commanding outrider, sword clutched in hand trembling like flags in a changing wind. Edmond approached the dazed, young templar.

"Lucien."

He blinked at Edmond, saying nothing.

"Haste back. Alert Knight-Corporal Jeannette. Tell her to be . . . careful."

When Lucien still didn't react at Edmond's words, he grabbed the young man by his shoulders, shaking him thoroughly. The outrider-commander blinked again, his features one of bewilderment, before he seemed to wade out of his stupor.

With one final shake of his head, Lucien answered, lip quivering, "Aye, ser. Right away."

Troubled, Edmond peered at the lad's retreating back until the gloom finally swallowed him whole. With a decisive hand gesture, the waiting squad of templars fell in behind him.

A woman's chilling cry pierced the night's still air.

The knight-lieutenant turned, careering off. As he moved through the dreary forest, continuously collecting muddy dirt on his feet and ankles and shins, his vision's only illumination provided by few flickering torches carried by his templars, excruciating shrieks, the tearing of human flesh, snapping of bones and, occasionally, the clash of iron on iron sounded.

He found himself on a small overgrown glade. The ground felt uncharacteristically warm and soaked. With reason, as Edmond found out. Seven motionless bodies idly loitered around, their blood decorating surrounding trees and undergrowth and scant vegetation. Of Traveller there was no sight. Cautiously Edmond treaded deeper into the ghastly glade, bluish sword gleaming at his side.

It could not have taken Edmond, and the squad of templars struck mute at his back, more than twenty heartbeats to reach the glade. Twenty heartbeats, sufficient enough for Traveller to cut down seven seasoned templars, it defied logic and experience both.

Then dreadful wails started behind their current position. Edmond turned, speeding off, templars once more in tow.

_Maker preserve us. My pitiful diffidence may well have cost many templars' lives. Too many. Frozen up, unable to voice my commands._

A shade scurried past them, not ten paces away. The three crossbowmen of his squad briskly snapped up their firearms, sending away the heavy quarrels. A pained grunt answered them. Apprehensively they edged forward, finding a female templar, a lone crossbow bolt deeply lodged into her spine. A red puddle quickly gathered beneath her motionless form. The three crossbowmen looked stricken, faces adapting the colour of ash. It was too much to bear for Edmond to watch their expressions growing more forlorn with every short beat of his thundering heart. He turned away, removing himself a few paces, and scanned the sombre vicinity.

Wiping sweat and grime from his brows, Edmond breathed, "Maker fend."

_Bastard is toying with us, like we're prey. I should have never advanced so eagerly. A foolish mistake not befit of a knight-lieutenant. Now my templars pay the price in blood. How should I have known that . . ._

A gust of wind, then a plummeting body in armour alerted Edmond at something behind him. Spinning around, he spotted Traveller leaping over the descending templar, and into the squad's disarrayed midst. The three crossbowmen were nearest to Traveller, turning towards their falling comrade, they were caught entirely unawares, still in shock. Their assailant's sword swung in a wide, diagonal arc, decapitating the middle templar with ease, and then continued its descent through the left man's raised arm. Both thumped to their knees, one screaming, the other unable to. A savage kick snapped the remaining crossbow bearing templar's leg nearly in half, leaving him to writhe and clutch his mangled leg in the dirt.

Recovered to some degree from their opponent's lethal ambush, the residual templars' charged, swords raised. The first among them charged too impatiently, weapon already thrust forward in a killing blow. Traveller nimbly evaded the attack, cracking his armoured elbow hard enough against the hapless templar's occiput to crush bone beneath, driving bony shards into his occipital lobe and cerebellum, thus sending the man sprawling, already dead. Meanwhile the tapered longsword was again in swift motion, deftly deflecting the second templar's wild sword swing, while the third attempted to viciously gut Traveller with a vertical slice of his blade's tip, only to find his opponent dodging the strike smoothly. In retribution for the failed evisceration attempt, Traveller, still in mid-dodge, severed the third templar's legs, right under his kneecaps, with a back-handed sweep of his weapon, easily slicing through flesh and bone and cartilage. Pirouetting round, he met the second templar's anew advance with a flurry of fleet strikes, too quick for the eye to follow. Abruptly the second templar dropped, heaving a bubbling sigh. Only now Edmond saw that, littered over her entire body, countless deep gashes bled profoundly. It had simply been the latest wound, a severed carotid artery, finally robbing her of life.

The last of his templars, a bear of a man, carrying a shield in his left and a broadsword in his right, fared no better than the rest. Even with his substantial physical advantage he was as helpless as a crippled mouse would be infront of a hungry cat. Edmond could not even discern how, yet somehow Traveller batted aside the templar's shield. In a flash his oddly-coloured longsword followed from above, shattering the last templar's clavicle with a sickening crunch, to then lacerated tendons, muscle and organs beneath. With a macabre sucking noise, the blade wrenched free.

No heartbeat to spare, Traveller engaged Edmond. His enemy's longsword swirled left and right, too fast for Edmond's eyes to follow, even rudimentarily. Thus forced to solely rely on his sharpened instincts, he was barely able to parry most of the critical strikes, though some minor wounds opened up on his forearms and shoulders. _By the Abyss, that man is fast. There's not even time, to so much as think about a potential counterattack. _

Edmond knew he would misstep before it actually happened. No opening just a clever feint, enough to register for a skilled swordsman, and he clumsily fell for it. Searing pain laced through his leg, setting his dazed vision alight with countless stars. As enthralling warmth seeped over his thigh, he faintly registered his lyrium-invested sword slipping from his sweaty grasp. Metal cracked down on his cheek, crushing bone, washing his gaze once more awry. Thwacking sounds from far, far away, like the opposite side of a stretched hallway, a pained gasp heaved, then nothing, as blackness overtook him.

**.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

There existed no such thing as pure altruism. Not among the destitute, who ceaselessly quarrelled against those who, to them, appear inconsequentially different. Who rob the poor and hapless of their belongings, their food, their coin, their future. In turn others then find themselves surprised when the weak and unheeded among them rise up, howling out their anger and fury in answer. Inevitably, chaos descends, slowly, steadily, but surely. Among the masses of plebeian people, living huddled together in thigh, soiled shacks there is no denying what they are doing, fighting for survival, for themselves and no one else. Oppression and intimidation and plunder and slavery and rape they call their daily bread, soured yet further by all their deeds or by idleness.

The noble-born and pampered and rich just hide it better. For them, pronouncing their selfish ambitions openly was to call for self-ostracism, forever expunged from the lofty heights coin brought with it. They resorted to different solutions, though that did not necessarily wash them clean of depravity. Sleight of hand, bribery and extortion and political manoeuvring, poison and assassins they called their daily bread, sweetened by their victories, overwhelmed with riches and reward. Yet condemned they were, to never fulfil their endless ambitions. For where one, washed away from the shores of victory, already new ones arise, towering over the memories of old ones. As such their victories never prove to be the sweet satisfaction whisper by alluring voices in one's mind.

At least that's her own conjuration, out of old, hazy memories of a time nearly forgotten to her, and of her imaginations and father's stories and tales. And, of course, their shared adventures.

For Amethyne, bread currently left a veiled flavour as aftertaste. Unknown, but still, it beckoned her to vigilance.

She had left her father behind, the only reliable person in her life, thus far. The only one, who cared, believed enough, to put his own life at risk to protect her, time and time again, never asking something in return.

_Even though, in truth, he is not my father._

And now, she was stuck with these . . . foreign people. These strange people and their selfish, calculating looks pointed in her direction, ever in the guise of an altruistic deed.

_Here, eat child, you must keep your strength. At least until we see no use in keeping up with you any longer, then we're going to throw you to the templars or someone else trying to do us harm. Eat child, you must serve good as bait._

The whole first night she had struggled with every fibre of her being. When blood curling shouts and screams awoke behind her, the darkness suddenly acquired an uncomfortable chill, rattling her deep down to the bone. Blank mask set into place, her father had unleashed his calm fury. A contradiction, she knew.

Days now gone past, and still there was no sign of him. Amethyne knew, nay felt somehow, that he did indeed live, there was no denying that. She was sure of it.

The High Mage who now led them marched ever on, furrowed glances over his shoulders meanwhile reduced to a minor infrequency, heedless of the tripping sorceress and the sniffing children under his care, he walked on, ever on, driven by sheer will. Or maybe it was fear. Certain was only that he cared naught for his fellow peers' plight.

And so too did Amethyne, who would follow meekly. Occasionally providing them with her own deeds of altruism. _Keep everything in soporific balance._ Unknown currents drove her onwards. So long until her fellow apostates, in their sheer desperation, would betray her or if they would ever reach their goal, the old fortress called Andoral's Reach, crumbling like its own empire.

Then she would think, long and meticulously, about how to act further. That's what she told herself.

_By the Creators. Father return to me, I beg you._

**.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

Leliana sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair. Delicate fingers plucked wine grapes out of a wooden bowl, one after another, guiding them to safety inside her mouth. She had brought them, of course. Turning her head, she looked at the silently contemplating man occupying the nearby bed, unmindful of the dirty rags which wouldn't even pass for a darkspawn as bed sheets.

_Not that they'd need or rather care for such banal things. I guess . . ._

Footsteps approached. The rotting wooden door was pushed open with erratic haste, crashing against a modest commode adjacent to the decrepit room's entrance. A weary curse sounded from the tall woman, short cropped hair gleaming even blacker as they were soaked wet from the steady downpour outside Horned Pony's Inn. Shoulders nearly filling the door's frame, the woman stepped inside, surveying their humble abode before gazing at the room's two other occupants

"It's falling apart," the fierce woman said, clutching the plain longsword scabbarded at her side, as if to steady herself.

Cradling in his hands an ornate crossbow of fine craftsmanship, the suave dwarf asked, possibly with feigned interest, "What is, seeker?"

Cassandra Pentaghast closed the door behind her, muttering, "Everything."

"Nothing new then," Varric Tethras answered, sounding reaffirmed.

With a tired sigh, the seeker plopped herself down in an identical chair opposite the bard.

"Actually, there is."

The dwarf gazed up at her questioningly. "What is?"

"News."

Shifting his attention, Varric scrupulously set down his beloved crossbow, Bianca.

"Tell us, then, seeker, your news. Hopefully they're better than last time."

"I fear I'm about to disappoint you, Tethras."

"Funny, at least? Or maybe entailing a rather colourful story including a-"

Holding up a slender hand, Leliana intervened, "Please, Varric, let her speak."

The dwarf muttered something under his breath and took a sip from a flask which, somehow, found its way into his hand. Cassandra nodded her consent and grabbed one of the delicate vine grapes herself, plopping it into her waiting mouth.

"The messenger your little birds informed you of, Varric, he is a junior templar completely haggard and half famished from his journey. He hailed from Val Foret."

Curiosity sparked, Leliana arched an eyebrow, and out of her vision she saw Varric do the same. _A long, perilous way to send a lone rider._

"I asked myself why not send a raven," Cassandra blurted out, snatching another grape. "But when he told me the message he bore, well . . ."

Voice revealing faint intrigue, Varric asked, sarcasm dripping forth, "How did you even get him to talk to you, seeker. You know, with you still serving as our most holy Divine's right hand. Which is, if I might say so, not exactly a well-guarded secret."

Cassandra just scoffed. "I think I talked about a junior templar who arrived haggard and half famished and was profoundly happy when a high-ranked member of the seeker order already awaited him at the gates, leading him to his much deserved rest and a warm meal. Where he told her everything. You should learn to listen, dwarf."

"With your brashness, I never thought you capable of lying, seeker." He flashed his white teeth at her. "And, I just like to hear the whole tale."

They continued to stare at each other silently, one with furrowed features, the other with a beaming smile.

Deliberately scraping the insufferable chair over the stone tiles on the floor, Leliana captured their dwindling attention. Slowly, she approached the small window, opening it she stole a glance into the dreary weather outside. Steely grey coloured the sky above Val Royeaux in a depressingly heavy atmosphere. She always liked, especially as a child, to just listen to the thick rain droplets mercilessly crashing down on roof tiles. Leliana turned back towards them, gesturing for Cassandra to continue with her tale.

"He had been part of a company of templars, hunting down a group of apostate mages."

Varric barely managed not to spit out the swig of _whatever it was he drank_, thus saving the room's interior from an untimely, but much needed restoration. With his loose linen shirt's cuffs he wiped off escaped liquid from his lips, then croaked his question.

"An entire company. Who did they find out there? The Grand Sorceress herself?" Half-heartedly he added, "Even though I know for sure that she's at Andoral's Reach."

Cassandra shook her head; gaze suddenly veiled by . . . something Leliana could not discern, which made her uneasy.

"No. They found a single man when hunting said apostates, out in the Nahashin Marshes, and he waited for them. The messenger said the stranger cut down nearly two dozen templars, injuring another dozen or so additionally to severely wounding their commander in the process. And then vanished, leaving them behind like a bird with both wings clipped." The seeker's voice descended into a mere whisper, "Alone . . . I mean, how should that even be possible?"

Varric spoke, baffled, "I know of one woman who could possibly do such a thing, but she's a sorceress, so . . ."

"Hawke," Leliana said.

"No, the messenger said it was a man, armed only with a sword. Additionally I can safely say that a company of templars would carry lyrium-invested weapons. The commander, at least," Cassandra added.

Leliana locked the window. "Tomorrow, before dawn, then."

Both seeker and dwarf nodded. Then Varric rose, dusting of imaginary dust, or maybe not as imaginary as first thought.

"I think I'll head down," he rumbled.

Cassandra scowled. "We're going to ride tomorrow morning, and you want to get drunk?"

"Exactly, we're going to ride."

Scowl vanishing, the seeker chuckled light-heartedly.

Opening the creaking door, Varric left with a faint mutter, making Leliana desperate to stifle an inappropriate giggle.

"Ancestors, I need ale."

**.-~* q.Q.p *~-.**

Anguished wails, the nauseating reek of human wastes and the coppery scent of blood assaulted his dulled hearing. They quaintly greeted him, welcoming him to a new day in his currently miserable life. Partly all this suffering was his fault. It certainly was on his crestfallen consciousness.

His entire left thigh pounded in fiery pain, feeling like it had been ripped in half. Quite probably, the notion wasn't as far from the truth as Edmond would like, now that a semblance of memory of what exactly happened to him returned.

The tent's flap rustled, being pushed aside. Paces tapped across the dry ground. Then Evangeline's concerned face hovered into view. A sorrowful smile found its way onto her lips.

"Edmond. Can you hear me?" With her gloved finger's tips she gently caressed his right cheek.

Preparing to acknowledge her presence, sharp pain blossomed gruesomely to life on his opposite cheek, finally admitting the repercussions of his other wound. One he regrettably forgot. Alas, a broken cheekbone does no good for one's conversational capabilities.

Laying eyes upon his knight-corporal, Edmond noticed her stricken features, emotions fighting a relentless war for uncertain sovereignty. From nearby she fetched a stool, sat down, stretching her long legs parallel to his cot.

"It's good to see you alive. You were unconscious for more than three days."

Evangeline squeezed his hand lightly. With all his current might, he squeezed back, wanting to tell her . . . so much. To her it must have seemed more like a hurt twitch because she quickly gathered her hands between her legs.

"Lucien made it back unharmed. Thoroughly shaken, but unharmed. I immediately took off after you."

Her gaze descended, stuck on the floor. As Edmond watched the many facial expressions scurrying over her face, sadness filled up his heart.

"We found so many . . . dead, so many gravely wounded . . . butchered. Likely only to slow us down, cripple us. After all, wounded soldiers are more of a burden than dead ones. I-"

Her voice cracked. Nearly a hundred heartbeats passed before the female templar beside Edmond could reign in her raging thoughts and emotions. Something blank, unemotional set itself upon the throne of sovereignty, driving all else away. _Cold, seething rage or maybe worse, a self-destructive obsession._

"They call it a demon, personally sent by the Maker himself," she said, tone betraying nothing.

Through sheer will, Edmond fought through the pain, only to then croak a single word. "Nonsense."

"That's what Lucien said, too. A single man, carving a bloody path through an entire templar company. I could barely believe him. But then, I also would not believe the other stories. Outlandish, built from frightened and confused minds. Which was the least to be expected."

"With all the wounded we're unable to move anywhere, so I gave the order to permanently camp down here. I sent out riders for aid in men and medicine and provisions. And, I-"

She pinched her nose.

"I sent Lucien to Val Royeaux. He was the only one not to babble about demons and horrid creatures lurking in the dark." A heartbeat pause. "I think it was good of you to send him away, Edmond."

Now her face slowly turned, looking at him, diligently searching for . . . approval, acquiescence, something, anything? Edmond didn't know, only mustered up a weak nod. Then he tried to gift her with what he thought to be a reassuring smile. It seemed to work modestly, for wry amusement crossed her features. A spark in her bright eyes flickered.

_Do not fall into an obsessive pit of rage and pain and self-pity, dear lass. Leave that to me, I beg you. Andraste I beg you, guard her._

* * *

_Author's note:_

___Hope you enjoyed the second chapter somewhat._

_For any grammatical errors, let me apologise, I read over every piece I write quite often, yet that doesn't grant my story immunity._

_From now on I believe my chapters will be toned down in length. Because if I write overly long chapters I'll try to squeeze and push even more out, even if it gains nothing in truth._

_Be aware that this is set in an Alternative Universe, there will be major and minor changes to how the world of Thedas works, eminently to how magic and things involved around the subject work, in addition to some imaginations of my own._

_I'd be happily surprised if you'd take a few minutes to merge your opinions into a comment, long or short, that's up to you. Because those few minutes you'd invest there, they'd be my fuel for future hours._

_Thank you very much._

_fjun_


End file.
